


elements

by boundinshallows (museme87)



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, realistic sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25947718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/boundinshallows
Summary: [Post Season/Series 2] Tommy seeks out Alfie after he digs his own grave.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 30
Kudos: 123





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a confession: I started this fic in Summer/Fall 2019. It was my first stab at writing Tommy/Alfie, and I got caught up in it and had to put it aside. Posting this in parts is meant to help motivate me to finish it off and finally put what was my first ever Peaky fic to bed lol. 
> 
> It's introspective porn based on the idea that Tommy has all these women waiting to talk to him post-Derby, and Tommy fucks off to Alfie's instead. 
> 
> Also, a continuity error: Tommy's eyebrow is actually what gets split in the grave scene, but I preferred a wound at his temple. If I can make Tommy and Alfie bang it out, why not change the location to better serve me?

Alfie decides, after hearing a series of knocks on his door at too-fucking-late-at-night-for-this-shit, that someone better be dead. And if someone wasn’t before, he thinks very reasonably, they most definitely will be after. Not that he had yet to turn in for the night, mind, but few things ought to come between a man, his dog, a late night cuppa, and Anton Rubenstein’s concertos.

His murderous inclinations abate, however, when he opens his front door to find—of all fucking people—Tommy huddled up in his coat, trying to make himself a bit smaller to escape the rain that’s absolutely pouring outside. It’s a futile effort, that; the man is already soaked to the bone by the looks of it. Alfie’s eyes narrow, the sight before him leaving him dumbfounded and momentarily wondering if he’s dreaming.

“Tommy?”

“Can I…?” he asks a little miserably.

Alfie finds himself motionless for a long moment, struck suddenly by the way rain droplets cling to Tommy’s criminally long eyelashes. They clump together, wet and leaving damp trails beneath his eyes. Beautiful eyes, like blue ink grown pale in water. A man could get lost in those eyes and find himself drown before he ever knew it. _Worse ways to go_ , Alfie thinks. _Easy as falling asleep_. The more he considers it, the more he’s half in love with the very idea, and the moment only shatters when he catches Tommy’s slow blink.

“Fucking hell,” Alfie grumbles. “What are you standing out there for? Come in, come in.”

He ignores the way Tommy’s brows draw together in annoyance as the younger man steps across his threshold and into the foyer. Alfie shuts the door quickly behind him as the wind drives the rain down hard against the house. All too quickly, though, Alfie finds himself grateful for the storm as Tommy pulls off his cap and pushes his wet hair out of his face. His eyes trace the descent of a rivulet of water from Tommy’s brow over his high cheekbones and loses it as it falls from his jaw. He’d like to follow that very path with his tongue, he thinks. _Down and down and down until we’ve drank our fill_.

His gaze does drop at first appreciatively over Tommy’s body before falling to the puddle that’s steadily gathering at Tommy’s shoes. With a blink, the droplet is momentarily forgotten.

“Oi, is that any way for a guest to behave?” he asks, gesturing at the puddle. “Dripping water all over my fucking floors, mate. If I’d wanted the rain on the inside, _in_ my fucking house, yeah, I wouldn’t have bothered to close the door, would I?”

Tommy throws him a withering look, one that would easily intimidate some men. Most men, even. But Alfie is fucking neither, thank you very much, and just waves Tommy off.

“Right then,” Alfie says before heading into his sitting room.

He returns a moment later—maybe two, because Alfie felt it was very important that Cyril know he was a remarkably good boy and quite handsome in his new collar, if he did say so himself—and tosses a well-worn blanket at Tommy. Tommy dries his face gently before patting down his clothing, which as far as Alfie is concerned is a lost fucking cause at this point, innit?

As Tommy carries on, Alfie is suddenly reminded that he has no fucking idea why, exactly, Tommy is here in the first place. Not that Alfie is complaining because no man with an ounce of sense, hell even _half_ that much, would turn Tommy away looking like this, wet floor boards be damned. But it does occur to him in passing that this call is most fucking _unusual_ even if it is welcome.

Almost as if he can read his mind, Tommy finishes up and catches Alfie’s eyes. Alfie crosses his arms, waiting expectantly for an explanation. And really, it doesn’t even have to be a _good_ one, just one that Alfie can show some modicum of annoyance about before he goes back to thanking his God for whatever he’s done to deserve a wet Tommy at his doorstep. Tommy doesn’t offer anything though and looks almost— _almost_ , if this weren’t Thomas fucking Shelby—at a loss.

“It’s pissin’ it outside, eh?” Tommy says finally.

“Pissin’ it outside? _Pissin’_ it?” Alfie presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You come all this way to make conversation about the weather? I knew it was a fucking shithole where you rest your pretty little head. I did. I knew it. What I _didn’t_ know, right, was that it was so fucking miserable that you had to drive all the way to Camden Town for idle fucking conversation at a time when most respectable people are already in bed. That _was_ a surprise. Truly. I _am_ shocked.”

“Oh fuck off,” Tommy says, shrugging out of his coat.

Alfie watches as Tommy turns to hang his coat, his eyes trained on the way Tommy’s shoulders move beneath his shirt. Alfie has felt them ripple, has tasted the sweat that gathers there as he’s had Tommy on his hands and knees. The scent of him is vivid in Alfie’s memory, so much so that his hand twitches. To move. To reach out. To press Tommy against the wall then and there. Alfie _wants_. To breathe him in deep, his nose trailing along Tommy’s hairline, behind his ear, along his jawline. To bite him at his pulse point and make Tommy sigh in a way that Tommy will hate himself for.

It’s only because his gaze is fixed on Tommy’s neck that he notices the pink stain blooming on his collar. Alfie’s brows draw together, following a pale red line up Tommy’s skin to his temple where there’s a wound half-hidden in dark hair.

“What’s this now?”

When he reaches out to inspect it, Tommy shies from his touch. And yeah, Alfie ought to have seen that fucking coming. He knows Tommy well enough by now to know that the younger man spooks as easily as those big, dumb beasts he’s so fond of. Alfie sees Tommy’s jaw work, sees the challenge in his eyes.

“Thomas,” Alfie says, his voice both a caress and an admonishment.

It earns him a warning look, and Alfie’s reminded of the time Tommy told him he set an explosive in the bakery. Maybe the threat is real, maybe Tommy really will bolt out the door if he makes one wrong move. And it might be a sign that he’s well and truly fucked that Alfie would much rather have Tommy in his home, in his bed, than on his way back to fucking Small Heath.

Tommy is nothing but a coil of tension, and the air is pregnant with precarity. Then, Tommy closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He’s fucking steeling himself against something, Alfie thinks. Alfie expects the worst on that slow exhale, but a little tension appears to escape with the air.

“Should I have posted you an invitation to fuck me?” Tommy asks, his voice low and dangerous. “Or can we skip the formality?”

“So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” Alfie asks with a snort.

Alfie has to admit that he’s impressed Tommy can manage to articulate what it is they do. Not that Tommy’s a fucking prude, mind. Any man who can do _that_ with his tongue knows his way around, no bloody denying _that_. But it’s not something they discuss. Hell, they barely talk to one another about this new facet to their…whatever-the-fuck-it-is that they are.

“Right. You’ll forgive me, Tommy, if I don’t want a shivering, damp, and bleeding man in my bed just yet. So, what you’re going to do is, and listen very carefully, you’re going to go upstairs and draw a bath. And while you’re cleaning yourself up, I’m going to make you some tea. _And_ you’re going to drink said tea without any fucking commentary. Maybe, between the bath and the tea, you’ll ward off the chill that you no doubt caught driving all the way from fucking Birmingham in a rainstorm. And maybe then, and only then, will I let you into my bed and try to fuck some sense into you.”

“Finished?” Tommy asks after a beat, surprisingly calm.

Alfie can’t help but smirk, an amused sort of sigh slipping between his lips. He rubs his hand over his face, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

A moment later, Tommy is fishing through his pockets for a cigarette. He lights it up, bringing it to those perfect lips and rubbing it just so over the bottom one before taking a drag. 

“Mmm,” Tommy hums, nodding.

He disappears into the house without so much as a by-your-leave, like he fucking _owns_ the place. And Alfie thinks he might even be angry about it, but he can’t quite get the image of Tommy trailing the end of his cigarette over his lip out of his mind.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escalation

Beneath the haze of arousal, Alfie knows that something is not _on_ about this. Not the fucking—Tommy has proven himself to be a needy little shit in a few months since they started carrying on—but Tommy showing up _here_ in the middle of the goddamn night with blood in his hair. He has enough men around London to be very fucking well informed into the comings-and-goings of enemies and associates alike, thank you very much, and Alfie can say with a fucking certainty that Tommy was not meant to be in town for a fortnight.

As his gaze remains fixed on the fire before him, his thoughts briefly go to the Derby. He’s heard of some kind of trouble there, but nothing specific just yet. Might be that Tommy was involved. Fucking _likely_ come to think of it, but that doesn’t fucking explain why he’s acting out of turn.

 _Gift horses_ , _mate_ , he tells himself with a shake of his head. _Not worth the fucking look, are they?_

Alfie continues to stroke Cyril with his toes, the dog curled up in front of his chair by the fire. He tries to think about Tommy. About his own cock. About the many, many permutations of those two things that are bound to end in mind-numbing orgasm.

But the thing with Tommy…it niggles. Just there. Just at the periphery of his pleasure.

Alfie sighs.

Whatever the fuck Tommy has got himself into, it’s none of his fucking concern, is it? Oh, Tommy’s alright, of course, at least as far as anyone from Birmingham, of all fucking places, can be alright. But the blood in his hair shouldn’t mean a damn thing when it’s Tommy’s arse and cock that’s really of interest to Alfie. And those, as far as Alfie can tell, seem to be in perfect fucking order, don’t they?

Briefly, Alfie considers all that, considers whether he believes any fucking word of it, before he’s interrupted by Tommy coming into the bedroom.

He can’t say he’s ever had the pleasure of watching Tommy Shelby walk around a room with a towel slung low around his hips, but Alfie now realizes that it’s been a fucking tragedy—down right _Shakespearean,_ damned spots and unkind cuts and unwise love, the whole bloody lot of it—that it hasn’t happened before this moment.

Tommy passes him by, giving him a lovely look at his backside, as he heads to the bedside table where Alfie placed a cup of tea not ten minutes ago. Alfie watches Tommy watch him as Tommy lifts the cup and pointedly takes a sip.

“Satisfied?”

“Soon enough, I suspect,” Alfie answers.

Tommy sets down the cup without taking another drink and drops his towel with a quick tug at the fabric. Alfie follows its descent with his gaze down Tommy’s body to where it pools around his feet in a heap and then retraces his path back up Tommy’s lean legs to his hips. His breath hitches at the sight of Tommy’s soft cock nestled in dark curls, lovely and long. Alfie recalls the taste of him, the smell—salty, musky, somehow raw on the tongue. The silky, smooth skin contrasting starkly with the wiry hair of his thighs, thighs which Alfie so often grips til bruising to steady Tommy’s eagerness.

When Tommy steps forward, Alfie shifts his focus up the pale planes of his torso and chest to that beautiful face of his. _A man might set the world aflame for a face like that_ , he thinks to himself, not for the first time. _A thousand bloody ships a pittance by comparison_. Tommy has no idea, and he’s fucking grateful for that much.

Alfie holds Tommy’s gaze when Tommy stops in front of his chair. And there it is again, that niggling _something_ that sets Alfie’s stomach to knots. It’s in those blue eyes of his, the way Tommy’s looking at him. Never fucking seen that before, has he?

Just as Alfie thinks he might be able to place whatever it is, Tommy startles him by climbing onto the chair with him, straddling his legs and crowding him against the back cushions. Alfie doesn’t even have a moment to process Tommy in his lap before Tommy leans in to press his lips to his own. He expects the feel of Tommy’s teeth dragging along his lips, of hard, urgent kisses. Instead, Tommy’s kisses are slow, full, sensual. They feel chaste compared to what Alfie is used to, but then again, not chaste at all. There’s nothing fucking innocent about the way Tommy captures his mouth entirely against those supple lips of his. When Alfie opens his mouth just so for him, Tommy responds by ducking away ever so slightly, bumping his nose against Alfie’s in an almost reprimand before returning to kissing him fully.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Tommy?” he whispers against Tommy’s lips.

“I wouldn’t know how,” Tommy answers sincerely, his voice barely audible as he closes his eyes and leans into Alfie again.

Something about his honesty has Alfie bringing his hands to Tommy’s too-slender hips, pulling him down and against him more tightly. Tommy shudders a gasp and runs his hand up Alfie’s chest to his shoulder. Alfie feels like his own hands are everywhere, slipping up and down Tommy’s back and over his thighs, scrambling for purchase while this beautiful, insufferable man allows him to touch, to have, to worship.

And Alfie, well, he’s a very godly man now, isn’t he?

His palms stray low on Tommy’s back, and Alfie feels the subtle shift in his hips. Lifting one hand away, Alfie brings his fingers to Tommy’s chin, directing him with a firm, yet gentle touch. When their eyes lock, Alfie lets his fingers stray lower, over the sweet curve of Tommy’s arse, and dip between to brush against his opening.

Tommy’s brow knits and lips part, the little moan he lets slip between them a thing of beauty. It’s unhidden, laid bare, so unlike Tommy, who does his level best to swallow his pleasure whole before admitting to it. The rawness of it sends a shiver down Alfie’s spine to the ache building between his legs. And Alfie plays it, over and over again—Tommy’s confession—until his lungs are filling with it and it hurts to breathe.

“Fuuuck me,” Alfie sighs.

“Not tonight,” he says, quiet and breathless. “Too many fucking clothes on, Alfie.”

Tommy unfolds himself from Alfie’s lap and draws Alfie to stand with him. His hands rest gently on Alfie’s chest for a moment until they’re suddenly sliding and tugging at Alfie’s shirt. Alfie joins his frenzy and together they manage to slip the shirt over his head. Tommy returns his long fingers to Alfie’s chest, his index finger tracing a swirl of black ink near Alfie’s shoulder. The touch, the look in those blue eyes of his, strikes Alfie as almost reverent.

And _that_...it fucking _does_ something to him. It’s visceral and muddled and has Alfie wanting to shove Tommy down on the bed and take him hard.

But.

And this is the worst of it all—the bloodiest, messiest bit of the whole damn thing. It also makes him fucking pause, stop in his bloody tracks. Because this? It’s _wrong_. The niggling at the periphery going off in his head like a bomb. Alfie doesn’t know who the fuck showed up on his doorstep tonight—whether this is some grand solo performance by one Thomas Shelby or if this is the genuine man himself—but it’s not the man he’s brought to bed time and again.

“Tommy.”

Tommy ignores it in favor of bringing his mouth to the side of Alfie’s neck and sucking hard enough that Alfie’s knees go a little weak. They don’t mark one another; there’s no claim that needs defending, so what’s the bloody point of it? But, oh, Alfie as thought about it once or twice, never one to shy from acknowledging the coils of want and jealousy slithering like mad in his belly.

“Tommy,” and it comes out as a sigh as Tommy’s teeth scrape across his pulse point.

When Tommy lifts his head, Alfie feels Tommy’s fingers wind through his hair, the touch gentle like a massage. And then their eyes meet, searching.

“I need you to take care of me tonight.”

The request burns through him.

“Now don’t I always, sweetheart?” Alfie asks all false bravado when, really, he feels himself desperate to say _yes, anything you ask and it’s yours so long as you never fucking stop looking at me like that_.

“You can take it?”

Alfie hums. “Anything you’ve got.”

Tommy takes it as permission to climb him like a fucking tree, don’t he? The twinge in his back barely registers over the feel of Tommy’s arse his hands, the weight of him there in his palms. It’ll be pain on the forecast for tomorrow, Alfie knows, but a month’s worth of hobbling around don’t quite compare to Tommy’s legs around his hips, Tommy’s hand fisting into his hair, Tommy’s labored breaths against his lips.

There’s hunger to Tommy’s touch now, as if Alfie swore an oath to carry him safely through whatever the hell has gotten into him. Alfie don’t remember any promises about safety; there’s nothing _safe_ about him—all spark and petrol, he is—but it is within his not inconsiderable power to see him through til daybreak.

(Tommy won’t stay; never does. In fact, Tommy usually looks at him in the morning like a bad decision, yeah? Like someone he pulled when he was too far gone with gin. And Alfie, well, he just stares him down. Naked. His cock stinking of Tommy. His chest hairs dried with Tommy’s come. He scratches his bollocks, and his eyes say it all— _I’m the soberest fucking decision you ever made, mate_. Tommy has to swallow that whole, don’t he, with the taste of Alfie’s seed stale on his tongue.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex next chapter, I swear. Sorry, everyone.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paradox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Kinktober! 
> 
> The observant viewer will note that the number of chapters have changed. Oops. At least somebody gets off in this one? Four chapters is the final amount, so help me god.
> 
> A quick warning about a couple bits of dialogue later in this chapter. They can give off a slight dub-con vibe if you have a significant sensitivity to that sort of thing, but everyone is consenting here. I don't think it merits any sort of official tag since it's not at all an underlying theme or a part of the fic. However, I didn't want to catch anyone off guard with the exchange.

The bed sinks beneath their weight, and Tommy releases his hold on Alfie’s shoulders and hips. He stretches himself across it, Alfie’s dark bedding drawing a stark contrast to his pale, freckled skin. Everything looks monochrome in the dim night light, all save for Tommy’s eyes turned dark blue.

Transfixed—his hands halfway to the button of his trousers—Alfie watches Tommy adjust his limbs. Arm over head, his hand curled delicately. Knee drawn up and leg fallen open. Fingers rub skin low on his belly. Tommy blinks slowly, heavily, as if it’s all he can do not to let go.

 _The Lord is with thee, thou mighty man of valor_.

A vision. Imperfect and scarred. Cruelly indifferent and selfishly hungry. A porous thing yearning to be filled. _His_ fleece. _His_ angel beneath the terebinth.

_Take the flesh and lay it upon this rock._

Alfie’s fingers catch and thumb the button open, shucking his trousers and pants off with efficiency. He takes himself in hand and strokes downwards with a twist at the head. Pleasure pools low with a rush of blood; it’s enough touch for now. There’ll be time for more later, won’t there?

Reaching for the knob on the bedside table, Alfie pulls open the drawer and snatches up the vial of slick. Residual oil from the glass coats the pads of his fingers, and he rubs them together, feeling the thick texture smoothing the friction away.

From the corner of his eye, Alfie catches the stutter of Tommy’s chest. He makes demands, Tommy does, whether with his words or his body. But when push comes to shove, yeah, well this whole thing is still a bit new to him. Alfie’s offered him a masterclass in fucking, by his own humble estimation, and Tommy can take cock almost as well as a back-alley whore. He still struggles with the opening though, fighting Alfie like he doesn’t know what’s waiting on the other side.

Alfie tosses the vial on the bed and climbs onto the mattress, settling between Tommy’s parted thighs. He runs a light touch up and down Tommy’s flank as if comforting a flighty animal and watches as Tommy’s eyelids flutter shut, as Tommy shudders a breath.

“Shhh, s’fine,” Alfie soothes.

Taking Tommy’s calf into hand, he lifts and spreads Tommy wider. While he doesn’t open his eyes, Tommy still plants his heel firm in the bedding, bracing himself. Alfie leaves the other leg where it is for the moment. No sense in getting eager just yet.

There are many ways he can (and has) dealt with this particular challenge, ain’t there? And in his rather limited, though still enjoyable, experience with Tommy, no one works better than the other. Fucking puzzle box, this one. Run your mind through bloody paces trying to wrap your brain around him and then out of nowhere— _pop!_ , you’ve found the fucking combination that’ll open his arse right up. Typical, making him work for this too.

Alfie dips his head between Tommy’s thighs and presses a kiss into wiry hair. His beard rubs against the hot, delicate flesh of Tommy’s cock, and Alfie catches the ankle before Tommy can reflexively kick at him or away. (Tom had done, once. Second or third time together, and he’d bloody Alfie’s nose and blamed _Alfie_ for spooking him, as if his face hadn’t been there the entire fucking time). Threat reasonably seen to, Alfie continues to kiss around a bit until Tommy’s wriggling. Merciful man that he is, Alfie draws the flat of his tongue up the underside of Tommy’s cock and around the uncut head.

He takes Tommy into his mouth, wet and relaxed and ready. As it happens, Alfie doesn’t do much of this anymore, but he did when he was young and learned a thing or two before his bones grew too weary for semi-public fumbles with men old enough to be his father. Judging from Tommy’s stuttered _ah-ah_ and jerk of his hips, Alfie suspects he still remembers enough to get by. Or, at least, Tommy hasn’t lodged a formal fucking complaint yet, and Alfie knows that he is entirely capable. Yeah, that is a _fact_.

As Alfie takes him in, takes him down, lets Tommy choke him a bit on his cock, Tommy grows more at ease. His hips fall open and his breathing evens out (even if it does quicken). It won’t last long. They’ll have to move this along; it’s what they both want, always do. But Alfie allows Tommy to wind his fingers through his hair and push him down until Tommy’s cock is at the back of his throat and his airway is restricted. Alfie swallows around him once, twice and then draws off, Tommy’s hips lifting to chase him.

Reaching for the vial, Alfie unscrews the little metal cap and coats his fingers generously with the oil. The cap goes back on, but not too tight. He’ll likely need it again before it’s all said and done. Alfie knows Tommy’s aware of what’s happening, can sense it in the way his legs twitch to close before Tommy catches himself. Ignoring Tommy’s hesitation, Alfie pushes at Tommy’s knee to spread him wider.

(There’s no sense in addressing it; he did the first couple times, didn’t he, but Tommy insisted that he _was_ relaxing, even has he gripped down on Alfie so tight he feared he’d lose a fucking finger to Tommy Shelby’s arse).

He slips his slick fingers between Tommy’s cheeks and finds exactly where he wants to be. As he swirls and pets at Tommy’s opening, Tommy’s hips jerk and stomach tenses. His exhale cuts through the crackling of the fire, a jagged and near pained thing. His toes curl, wrinkling the linens and turning white.

Shifting, Alfie presses light kisses into the rigid muscles of Tommy’s belly, flicking his gaze upwards every so often to study Tommy’s face. This, it’s what he does—snatching up stolen glances like a fucking thief while Tommy has his eyes closed. He burns the images into his brain, don’t he, the almost imperceptible downward turn of Tommy’s mouth, the hard swallow in his throat. He’s done his fair share of bad in the world, has Alfie, but tucking away the little moments of Tommy’s vulnerability laid bare for later—because later is inevitable, innit?—feels worse than most.

“Tom,” he says lightly, using the distraction to push in to the first knuckle.

“Fuck,” Tommy hisses.

“Like to, wouldn’t I? But you’ve got to relax.”

“I _am_ —”

Alfie bites down on Tommy’s hip bone to shut him up. Utter fucking nonsense. Then he takes Tommy’s bollocks in hand and cock in mouth again, the angry snarl cutting out with an _oh_ and roll of the hips. It’s enough to take Alfie’s finger in a little further, and as Alfie works him over with tongue and hand, Tommy’s body begins to ease.

By the time Alfie’s wriggles a full finger in a few minutes later, Tommy’s pushing down on Alfie’s head in an insistent way that Alfie associates with Tommy about to come. It’s no warning, nah. That’d be the polite fucking thing to do now, wouldn’t it? And they don’t teach manners up in Brum. No, there’s nothing conscious about it at all, just Tommy being the selfish little twat that he is.

He draws off, mouth red, and Tommy makes a noise that’s half-anger, half-surprise.

“None of that. You’ll get what you want, but not before you take two of my fingers, yeah?”

Alfie expects Tommy to get pissy with him; he usually does. But the rage in those eyes burns out quickly, and Tommy manages to settle and nod. It’s a thing of beauty, the way his heels move, those fine, thick thighs stretched and displayed. It’s enough to have him swallowing Tommy back down, greedy.

“Alfie,” Tommy sighs, fisting his hair once and then loosening his grip to cradle the nape of Alfie’s neck. “Like that.”

Contrary to his difficult nature, Alfie obeys easily; Tommy has this sort of power when he’s spread out like this. But they had a deal, and well, he’s come to collect. His finger slides against the other already settled deep in Tommy’s body. The muscle resists giving until Alfie swallows around Tommy. It’s a miserably tight fit, one that leaves Alfie dreaming of that grip around his cock. His cock that aches, hanging heavy and neglected and leaking between his legs.

Soon.

When Alfie’s fingers crook and stroke Tommy from within, Tommy’s straining up to fit himself deeper in Alfie’s mouth. It’s then that Alfie reaches up with his free hand, pinching at Tommy’s nipple as he rubs at Tommy’s prostate.

A paradox resolved—Tommy’s fluttering then clamping around Alfie as he spills down Alfie’s throat in long pulses. Alfie swallows and swallows, listening to the happy sounds and utter fucking nonsense coming out of Tommy’s mouth. They’re queer noises to his ears, which have been well fucking trained to Tommy’s grunted _oh fuck_.

After Tommy turns limp on the bed, Alfie licks Tommy clean as he shifts his fingers inside to avoid any oversensitivity and begins to stretch him. At first Tommy ignores it, too satiated to care what’s being done to him. But little by little his hips begin to respond, embracing Alfie instead of fighting to get away.

“Not bad.”

By the way Tommy can barely get his mouth to form the words, Alfie knows him for a lying little shit. And if he were half as reckless as everyone likes to think of him, well, he’d press up against Tommy’s prostate, wouldn’t he, just to make his heart skip a beat. He doesn’t though because he has Tommy where he wants him—cheekiness aside—the small undulations of Tommy’s hips telling it true.

The stretch takes time, but Alfie does it with care. First the two fingers and then the third fit to join them. At the brush of its tip, Tommy’s hips stutter. Alfie kisses the inside of his thigh, but it’s not enough to quiet Tommy.

“M’not ready.”

“You are.”

“I said I wasn’t,” Tommy hummed, tone light to Alfie’s ears.

It’s enough to bait him into shifting up Tommy’s body, his fingers still firmly buried in Tommy’s arse. (No fucking way is he giving up ground now). With his free hand, he runs his palm firmly over Tommy’s head, half-hold, half-caress. Alfie leans down close, and Tommy blinks up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.

“You’ll do as I say, poppet.” Alfie presses a hard kiss into Tommy’s hairline, making sure the rough of his beard rubs across Tommy’s skin. “You asked me to take care of you. And I think, right, I do think that you asked that of me because _you_ know _I_ know exactly what it is you need.”

“You don’t know the half of what I need, Alfie,” Tommy says, carding his fingers through Alfie’s hair. The shift in his tone makes Alfie suspect they are talking about very, very different things. “But I’ll let you try.”

Tommy leans up, pressing his lips fully against Alfie’s mouth. It’s firm and desperate like Tommy needs a fucking lifeline, innit? The blood _whooshes_ in his ears, and he’s dizzy at the thought that he might be the only thing tethering Tommy down.

His fingers slip out. Tommy draws in a quick breath—one shared between them—at the loss. Fumbling blindly for the vial, Alfie turns the loose lid and fumbles some oil onto his hand. The little bottle lays dripping, forgotten, on the linens.

Between Tommy’s suddenly urgent touches, Alfie gets himself slicked up and positioned. Whatever gave Tommy pause earlier is forgotten, judging by the short moan that escapes him when Alfie gives a little thrust. Tommy’s head drops to the side, eyes shut tight.

(It happens, sometimes. Alfie doesn’t have a lot of reference points, but he knows the movement well enough. The avoidance. A little fish swimming in a bowl of hooks, he is. Alfie’s his escape, his punishment, his fucked up need to toy with fire—all of that, embodied in one man. Alfie recognizes it, even if he doesn’t understand it. There’ll be enough penance and flame at the other side of all this for the likes of him if there is any justice in the universe).

Alfie kisses the muscles between jaw and neck, nosing just there and taking in the stink of him.

“I will, Tom,” he says, picking up the thread of conversation. “I will fail you, yeah. But it will not be for a lack of trying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last of the sex and a bit of chatting in the final chapter. Thanks for sticking with me. <3 You all are wonderful.


End file.
